The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

“No,” I lied. “Sorry to interrupt, please go on with what you were telling me.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that Green Eyes was into kissing and affection with intended victims. It was unusual for a sex predator to be so caring, almost loving, encouraging and complimenting their victim on their sexual abilities and how desirable they were and then murdering them in such a grotesque manner at the climax of their mutual enjoyment.

“Allan said that as he got to his feet, the man turned him around, undid his belt from behind, and then ran his hands over his arse and legs, telling him how he’d make sure Allan had a good time, that he wouldn’t neglect him. Allan said the man was very passionate and had taken care of him with his hand while he slowly built up speed and then, when he whispered he was about to shoot his load, he pulled back the collar of Allan’s shirt and licked his neck, moaning loudly. Right at that moment some bloke who’d seemingly come in for legitimate reasons heard them grunting and peeked over the top of the door and started to yell his head off, screaming at the top of his voice about ‘bloody poofters’ and threatening to call the cops. So, as they ran out of the cubicle, Allan pushed the bloke who’d been yelling backwards into the trough, all the while trying to get back into his strides, and then he and the bloke he’d been doing it with in the cubicle took off in different directions across the park.”

“And why did Allan tell you this, Boyd? If he’s a ‘bog boy’ as you so tactfully put it, surely he’d be used to regular men walking in on such things and getting angry.”

“Well, the only reason I knew is that he banged on my front door at two in the morning, really upset, shaking.”

“What?”

“Because, when he’d got to his car, he couldn’t remember which pocket he’d put his keys in. He said he’d always take them out of his trouser pockets if he knew he was going to take his strides off, and put them in his coat pocket, in case they fell out and he couldn’t find them in the dark. So, when he put his hand into the pocket of his jacket, he cut himself. The guy who’d been slipping him a length had also slipped a straight-edge razor into his coat.”

I think I might have swallowed a fly, my mouth gaped so wide and for such a long time. This was the rumour we’d heard years ago. The attempted murder that had gone wrong. It had to be our man. His first recognised, botched-up attempt. Perhaps there were others before? But certainly not in our patch. Rushcutters’ Bay was not really in the area the other murders had taken place, but not a million miles away either. Maybe it was a trial run, for the murderer to see whether he could do it or not? Unless we caught him and could question him, we’d never know.

“So while I was bandaging up Allan’s hand—he only had a shallow cut across his fingers—I asked him to tell me as much detail as he could remember so I could write it down, in case he had to make a statement to the police. But he took fright when I mentioned the police. I had to reassure him it was in case the man he’d pushed into the urinal had followed after him and had taken down the licence plate of his car. I told him I had to know exactly how he’d met the man and what they’d done, only so I could help Allan make up a cover story in that eventuality. I told him not to go home, but to stay with me for a few days. But the cops never did show up, so eventually we realised nothing would come from it.”

“I bet he was upset.”

Boyd laughed. “You didn’t know Allan, Clyde. He might have been upset, shaking even, but it didn’t stop him dragging me into the bedroom and having his way with me. He was like that. For him, sex solved everything. Happiness, fear, bad news … a roll in the hay fixed everything.”

“Do you remember anything special about the razor, did your mate Allan say anything?”

“He never went near a public toilet again, Clyde. It scared the shit out of him. Instead he used to go to some pub out at Alexandria. There was a back room there, and he said he’d always had so much sex there, the only reason he’d eventually come home was when he got so sore he couldn’t handle any more.”

The Cricketer’s Arms. That place again. I wondered if it would haunt me to the end of my days.

“The razor?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I still have it somewhere I think.”

“You what?” I was astounded.

“When he died, he left everything to me. I stored all his stuff away in the lockup in the basement of my block of flats. He said he kept it to remind himself of how close he’d come to being either slashed or held up for his money after they’d done the deed.”

“Did he by any chance say what the bloke was wearing?”

“Only that he seemed to have taken his pants and underwear off before he’d come over to Allan next to the canal. Allan said he was wearing one of those longish seersucker jackets and thought at first that the bloke had short shorts on underneath that didn’t show below the hem of his coat, but then said he got a huge surprise to find when the man opened up his jacket he wasn’t wearing anything from the waist down. Allan only told me that it looked very sexy and made him very interested …”

The look of slow understanding spread across his face. I was very surprised he hadn’t put two and two together well before now.

“You mean …?”

“Yes,